Zane (Inked Brotherhood 3)

Gah. He’s too handsome to be real. Too handsome to be interested in me. And yet here he is, and I can’t miss the bulge on the front of his jeans. He’s obviously hard, and the realization makes me feel hot. The tips of my breasts tighten painfully.

What is it about this boy that makes me lose my train of thought? Deciding I want to break through his defenses is one thing—but what he does to my body even with one look should be illegal.

“You came,” I blurt, and instantly wish I had swallowed my tongue instead.

He cocks his head to the side, eyes heavy-lidded. “Almost,” he whispers, and oh God, the boy is sexy as hell. “You have an awesome voice. Never heard anything like it.”

My face flames. “Thanks.”

I step off the stage, and he grabs my hand, steadying me. His fingers are callused and warm, his grip like steel.

“Hey, Koko, you okay?” Luke calls out.

“Fine. Just need a moment backstage. Yeah?”

“Koko?” Zane arches a dark brow at me.

“Yeah, the guys call me that.”

“I prefer Dakota.”

God, me, too, especially when it’s Zane saying it in his low, warm voice.

Besides… ‘Koko’ brings back too many bad memories. I’m not that girl anymore, the girl who trusted Collin and almost died for it.

I head toward the small backstage room, and he doesn’t release my hand. He follows me inside and closes the door, then turns the lock.

Before I ask what he’s doing, he slams me back against the wall, his muscled body pinning me, so that I feel every defined ridge and plane of his chest. He’s breathing hard.

Speaking of hard… The rod of his erection is trapped sideways inside his jeans, and its heat seeps through the fabric, branding my flesh.

“What are you doing to me?” he breathes, his strong hand trailing down my neck and slipping the strap of my blouse off my shoulder. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

I should stop him, but his fingertips send electric shocks down my spine. He lowers his face toward me, and my lips part in anticipation. He’s going to kiss me, I think, as his breath brushes the corner of my mouth—but he doesn’t. He trails his mouth over my cheek, along my jaw, under my ear. The touch of his lips—hot and soft—tortures me, arousing me more and more, as he bares my shoulder and draws patterns on my skin.

I struggle to swallow a moan, my nipples pressed against his chest, tiny pinpricks of pain and pleasure. His hand tangles in my hair, tipping my head back for better access, and his mouth brands my neck, sending electric discharges right into my core. Fire coils low inside of me.

Oh God, I think I’m about to come just from his lips on my neck and his fingertips on my shoulder. I have to do something to stop him. Stop myself.

I place my hands on his chest. “Ink me, Zane,” I whisper.

His mouth leaves my neck, and when he looks down at me, his eyes are so dark with need they seem black. His breathing is ragged. “Don’t.”

“I want it.” It’s more than a game now, more than familiar teasing. I need his touch so much it’s scary as hell. I’m throbbing everywhere, and I feel wet between my legs. This has never happened to me before. It’s as if the ground has been yanked from under my feet. It’s like freefall, and I hate falling.

“Tell me what you want.” He braces an arm on the wall by my head and licks his lips. He doesn’t kiss me. Why won’t he kiss me?

“You know what I want,” I say.

He leans closer again, his male musk scent surrounding me. How can I think straight when my hands are on his rippling abs, his mouth is inches from mine, and his hardness keeps pressing into my belly?

“What you want,” he drawls, “is for me to fuck you against the wall until you scream.”

I gulp. “No,” I lie, because the image… God. “What I want is a dragon tattoo.”

Immediately, like every time, his face closes off, his defenses slamming down hard, turning his eyes into flat mirrors. “And I said no.”

“Please, Zane. I want your ink on me.”